


Ring of Keys and Other Stories IV: Bodyswap/Role Reversal

by seaofolives



Series: Ring of Keys and Other Stories [4]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon Rewrite, Canon Universe, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, POV Baze Malbus, POV Chirrut Îmwe, POV Multiple, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-23 10:25:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaofolives/pseuds/seaofolives
Summary: Set in the beginning of the canon timeline.





	Ring of Keys and Other Stories IV: Bodyswap/Role Reversal

**Author's Note:**

> This fan work used dialogues from Alexander Freed's novelization. Author claims no ownership and profit over the work whatsoever.

“I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me, I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me…”

He heard the shrouded walls chant it back to him more than he heard himself speak it. It came in rapid successions of words and breath, barely a pause between inflections, commas and periods. The sad part was that it had become nothing more than a tick. A bastardized version of a prayer of the faithful, no matter that he whispered it to clenched fists as he sat hunched over the table. Because no matter how many times he recited it—“I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me,”—he would never forget the soft neck between his fingers, and the snap of a bone a heartbeat later. He hadn’t even given the muscles time to tense but that was a shallow consolation. Poor Tivik may have outlived his…value…but he was no animal. The Force reminded him of it, swirling darkly like shadows in his eyes, a persistent weight in his chest—but nothing more than that. A nagger, a silly warning that went away as soon as the deed was done but leaving him with regret. When was the last time he heeded it? He couldn’t remember. It used to be that he reconsidered on account of its message but now he just…killed swiftly. To get it done and over with. 

But he killed for a purpose—another familiar chant. He may not do it according to the lessons of his childhood but if one looked at the bigger picture, it could still be said that he took away life to preserve the Force of others. He was never raised as a Jedi, who anyway killed without regret. He never killed if it could be avoided. 

It just tended to happen more and more this late…

He silenced himself when he recognized his visitor. She felt light, subtle but powerful at the same time. With his eyepiece off, he couldn’t very well see her—or this small room he took refuge in anyway, but he knew who she was even before he caught her footfalls. 

She had the grace to tap him lightly on the right shoulder before she greeted him with a quiet, “Captain Imwe.”

Turning to her, he responded equally with, “Senator Mothma.” She was a white blur moving against a dark background in his tired sight, as if he looked at her from a filter of tears. He followed her all the same to the seat to his left where she braced her forearms on the tabletop. 

“You look worried, Captain,” she observed. 

“Maybe you’re finally rubbing off on me, Senator. That’s good.” He laughed a little as Mothma shared her own shier, more polite version. It was times like this that Chirrut was reminded of how much younger she was than he was, even though she acted like a mother even towards him. Or maybe he really was just more childlike than he gave himself credit for. He pressed his fingers lightly on his eyes as he added, “A follower must be more like his leader to walk in her path.”

“It’s a hard path to follow, Captain,” Mothma replied with her characteristic gentleness. “But all the same, I’m grateful for your loyalty. You’ve done valuable work, as always.”

He remembered the sound of Tivik’s boots frantically pacing the ground, his harrowed breathing, the weight of his body as he dropped it, broken and lifeless. The echoes of his last words resonating in his head as he escaped. 

“You think it’s true, Senator? What the Empire is building?” Chirrut asked her all of a sudden, keen to get away from his latest crime. “A Planet Killer. It sounds crazier than anything I can come up with. I can’t imagine how they’ll make it possible.”

Mothma was quiet, considering the question in deep silence. He couldn’t see her expressions, and could only make guesses based on what he felt around her. “It’s nothing out of the ordinary,” she conceded long after. “We’ve already been warned by the message the pilot brought to us when he defected, and this certainly falls under that category. If this is true,” she paused to realign her head. Chirrut couldn’t say for sure but he imagined she was looking at him now, “then we may have a good guess…about why they took over your home planet. And your Temple.”

The Temple of the Kyber was the first thing the Empire had taken from Chirrut. Ever since then, he’d been slowly losing everything that he knew and loved. The teachings of his Faith, his life, his old life, his friends… 

His…brother…

“The good news is that we’ve taken the steps to confirm this.” Mothma moved back to rest her shoulders on her seat. “Operation Fracture is officially signed off. General Draven and I worked on it while you were en route from the Ring of Kafrene and our asset was being extracted from the Wobani Prison Camp…” It wasn’t like Mothma to trail off even though her temperament seemed to point to the contrary. After all, like all leaders, like all politicians, she had her own mischievous techniques. But these slivers of honesty were reserved for tiny rooms, the few moments she had between one executive decision and the next. So when it came, Chirrut heard it. “I’m sure you’re aware by now, Captain, that the extraction was successful.”

Chirrut smiled, something that came easily and with complete honesty. For all that he went through—alone—it was bright and ready, not a mask he showed to Mothma. He really was glad for the news. He’d never heard of anyone who could escape Wobani in one piece, and he was relieved he could make this one possible. “I am,” he said. “I’m here because of that, aren’t I? I had hoped it would be a success even before I sent the message from the ship. I really ought to thank you and General Draven for making it possible.”

Mothma’s blob nodded. “You’ll be leading this operation, Captain. You have your team, and your course is set for Jedha. Report all updates to General Draven, your instructions moving forward will be coming from him.”

“Understood.”

“Do you have any questions?”

He always thought it was generous of Mothma to be opening this opportunity for him. It was not a part of her obligations, and yet he couldn’t help but feel as if she did it in deference to his age—or perhaps because when he came in, no one could really tell the difference between a Jedi and a Guardian of the Whills. So everyone treated him like a Jedi. 

Well, he wasn’t one for wasting chances. Chirrut began to ask, “If I can’t convince him to join us—”

“You have to, Captain,” Mothma insisted gently. “Without him, we lose our chance to gain support for the rebellion.”

And that was that. 

She rose, the folds of her simple gown dropping all around her. She laid another hand on his shoulder to tell him, “Whenever you’re ready, Captain.” Then she left. 

He would never be ready. And no passing of years would help. He knew this as he sat in the humming silence of the private room. But there was a task to be done and he never shirked from his responsibilities. 

He took his eyepiece from the tabletop—nothing more than a slender strip of metal that bridged one ear to the other, conservative nose pads and a thin device that spanned the top of his right eye to the start of his ear—put it on and with a weary dread, switched it on. The washed up details of the room came slowly into sharp clarity. It was there to help him see better but he couldn’t help but feel like the strain it was putting on his already-ruined eyes was more trouble than was worth it. But what could he do? His job required him to see.

He bought more time for himself to pull at his jacket, as if it needed straightening, take his walking stick from where it leaned by the table and tuck its wooden joints into itself, until all that was left was the metal stub at the top of it. It was an old thing he’d brought with him from the Temple, made from flame-hardened uneti wood, modified to be concealed for whenever he could see and needed a secret weapon. It was one of the only things he kept with him from his previous life. 

One other was a necklace he wore under his shirt: an old starbird symbol made out of reforged gold, hung down from a black cord. 

He tugged on it self-consciously, tucking and retucking it and smoothing down his shirt. Unlike his collapsible staff, it bore no purpose really other than to be a part of his neck and his life. With no more excuses to grasp on, he finally started towards the bunker. 

General Draven was conducting the interview when he stepped into the connecting bridge, already so short-tempered five minutes in. He marched carefully lest he draw attention to himself; he knew who he was up against, knew what this person could do by heart. It was the same skills he’d learned, the same skills he was raised in. The walls were high and dark, the shadows thick but he knew that when it came to him…to the both of them, those walls may as well be made out of glass. He couldn’t believe he could even hear him saying it in his voice in his head. And his chuckle…

Chirrut had always understood that memories could get so invasive at times, but he never realized until then that that was only because he allowed these thoughts to invade him so easily. Now he couldn’t get him out of his head. How smart of him to let this happen now, of all the times he needed to concentrate on his mission, and not his past. 

“Possession of unsanctioned weapons, forgery of Imperial documents, aggravated assault, escape from custody, resisting arrest…” 

General Draven sounded off his list of trespasses. In a better world, he might have burst out laughing at the utter lack of respect and damn this man gave to the law. How entirely like him that was. But then, this was also a brief history of what he’d done, what he’d been through since they separated—and it was no laughing matter. Decades of running, hiding and fighting, wondering if the day you woke up in would also be the day you finally closed your eyes permanently. It was…romantic, perhaps. The danger, the risks, the adventure. 

He knew the taste of that life, and it was too bitter to sustain a man. If his life was a soil to sow seeds on, it would be like Jedha now: barren, dry and wasted. The only reason why he could still stand this sort of life, decades past his prime was… 

His steps slowed down, but he could not stop. _Decades_ have passed since their last day together. Could their separation really end just like this? It wasn’t that Chirrut held onto an ideal reunion that could be ruined by any single moment but he had learned how to live this life, an entirely different one from the old days. Could he still do it? They say you couldn’t teach an old animal new tricks. 

“Imagine if the Imperial authorities had found out who you really were, Baze Malbus? That’s your given name, is it not?”

Chirrut stopped finally. He couldn’t believe it, he really _was_ there! But so different, he could hardly recognize him from the man who left him but he knew in his veins that it was him. He was dressed in a plain, old-fashioned flight suit, arms crossed, weight against the back of his seat. He’d grown bigger from the lithe, trimmed version he could remember but looking at the size of those knuckles under his fingerless gloves, Chirrut had no doubts he could still kill a man without breaking a bone or a sweat. No, they weren’t built for such frailties. His hair, once shaven so closely to his head, was now long and wild. He had a beard and a mustache, and his days traveling in different parts of the galaxy had burnt his skin to an even brownness. 

Baze Malbus. He couldn’t believe it. They’d gotten the right man out of Wobani! 

He went no further lest Baze spied him off the shadows of the bunker. If the Force moved darkly around a killer, then maybe it could do him a favor of shrouding him from a reunion he wasn’t prepared for. He folded his own arms and leaned his weight against one of the glass screens illuminating the bunker, practically as tall and wide as a wall. He stood somewhere to the back, watching the proceedings like a hunter stalking for dinner. Baze looked bored behind the conference table that parted him from the red-haired General Draven with his permanent scowl, white-haired General Dodonna who looked with soft eyes and Senator Mothma, standing right there, front and center where Baze could see her. 

“You top the Empire’s most wanted list, do you know that?” General Draven continued, referring to his datapad again. “Wanted for murder, espionage and treason. You’ve been on the run ever since you fell out of their graces.”

Baze’s eyes rolled from Draven, to Dodonna, to Mothma in turn and then back to Draven. And then he laughed—not loud or vulgar at all, something wheezy that came with a white smile. _This_ was the Baze that Chirrut knew. The complete lack of ceremony, the easy confidence. 

“Okay,” Baze finally spoke, with a voice that felt like it came from within his chest. It was much too deeper than what Chirrut last remembered but if he’d heard it from a busy marketplace, he could have picked it out easily. “What’s all this?” _Humor me,_ he might as well have said. 

“It’s a chance for you to make a fresh start,” Mothma answered, her gentle tone carrying easily across the board. “We think you might be able to help us.” 

Baze nodded towards her, one brow raised. “And you are?”

“You know who she is,” Draven hissed and might have spat out more poison if Mothma hadn’t waved for him to stand down. 

“My name is Mon Mothma,” she went on as if she hadn’t been interrupted to begin with. “I sit on the council of Alliance High Command, and I approved your extraction from Wobani.”

Baze’s brows curled, the face of a man doing some quick calculations. “There’s a bounty on your head,” he said when he remembered it. Chirrut had no doubts he would know that, considering the circles he rubbed shoulders in. Baze celebrated his triumph of having uncovered this detail with a huff and a handsome smile as he looked again at Draven, then Dodonna, then…

That smile fell like melting wax, those eyes staring back at him in recognition. Now there was no escape. Chirrut had to swallow down his nerves when he met Baze’s gape with a nervous, stoic gaze. 

Mothma turned in time to see this exchange. Raising a hand to him, she finally made the necessary introductions. If it could even be called that. “This is Captain Chirrut Imwe,” she said. “Rebel Alliance Intelligence. We believe…” She looked at Chirrut’s watching eyes. “That you’ve met,” she finished. 

Now he was called on to play; there was no escape. He moved easily into the bunker, greeting the two generals and the senator with a nod of respect each. Mothma and Dodonna returned the gesture but Draven scoffed, shook his head and rolled his eyes. 

He approached Baze carefully with quiet steps, barely making his heels tap the surface. Baze was still staring in utter disbelief. Chirrut felt as if he could hear him gasping, _You’re alive._ Well, yes. For his information, he was still _very_ much alive after all those years that he was _gone_. Maybe if he’d stuck around instead of running off to wherever there was money to be had, he wouldn’t be so surprised. 

In spite of that, Chirrut drew much closer than he ought to—because he couldn’t help it. They’d been friends in the past, they’d been _more_. And after all this time, he was still there in his mind—like the necklace was still around his neck. Was Baze okay? He had to make sure. Wobani was not for the faint at heart, barely even for the strong-hearted. And his curriculum vitae did not exactly promote a healthy lifestyle. He could spare his old friend that much concern. He looked at his face and noted two scars. Neither of his hands were robotic. The rest was under the flight suit. 

Chirrut could only hope for the best for now. He placed his weight on the side of the table, arms still crossed. It was time to forget the past and remember the mission. “When was the last time you were in contact with Director Orson Krennic?” he asked.

The shock flickered out of Baze’s expression, his eyebrows furrowing in its place. This was not the kind of hello he was expecting from an old friend, which only bolstered Chirrut to darken his glare. “Fifteen years ago,” he said after a moment, tone careful all of a sudden. He was testing the waters, a predator at work.

Chirrut doubled his guard; he bounced off the table and walked around his friend. “Any idea where he’s been all that time?” he asked, tone a little sharper now.

“Not that I can recall,” Baze answered, following him with his eyes. “Have you tried looking under Coruscant?”

Chirrut whirled to eye him with a warning but this time, Baze fought back, pulling down his own features to a tighter knot. _What are you doing?_ it seemed like he was asking. _Don’t you remember me?_ In fact, Chirrut did. Worse, he never forgot about him. But _Baze left him._ After everything they’d been through and all for money! If the man thought that was a mistake easily forgivable, then he knew now that he was wrong. Decades of surviving by the skin of his teeth were no joke. Even a former Guardian like Chirrut had his limits.

“Look,” Baze sighed, twisting in his seat to better look at his old friend. “When I last heard from him, I was in Wadi Raffa in one of his smuggling routes. After that, I escaped. _That’s_ my last contact with him.”

“Really?” Chirrut parked himself closer to Draven now. “He was your employer, wasn’t he?”

Baze flinched at the accusation. It was true, though. This was information discovered and confirmed when Chirrut finally joined the Alliance, after years of waiting and worrying and praying for his friend who’d disappeared so suddenly, without even so much as a goodbye. Ever since then…he’d lost faith in everything. If Baze could trade him for greener pastures, then there wasn’t much else to believe in anymore.

“I don’t make it a point to track down someone I’m hiding from,” Baze growled with a slow acid.

Chirrut felt surprisingly at ease when he responded coldly, “No, I didn’t think so.”

Baze’s jaw fell open. Shock drained his colors and broke his eyes wide open. He might have spat out something less than helpful to the already tensed interview if Draven hadn’t decided to step in with a threat.

“We’re up against the clock here, Malbus,” he snarled, rubbing his fingers on his wide forehead. “So if there’s nothing to talk about, we’ll just put you back where we found you.”

_No._

Chirrut turned to him urgently. “General, let me take care of this,” he whispered quickly, meeting the frown bravely. “Please. Baze Malbus is my friend, I know how to do this.”

Draven glared at him closely. “Then stop beating around the bush and get to it, _Captain_.” He stood back once more, shuffling a little farther. “The galaxy is waiting.”

Chirrut breathed and muttered a word of thanks. He turned to Mothma and Dodonna each and received from them the tiniest quirk of a smile and a generous nod respectively. He couldn’t believe he’d let his personal matters get in the way in front of these leaders he respected.

He nodded back, then turned again finally to Baze who wore the eyes of an observer. Chirrut flared a little. Damn if he would let this man read him so easily like that! If anything, that at least put him right back to business.

“When was your last contact with Saw Gerrera?” he asked.

“You know, if you’re studying to be a lawyer, I’m here to tell you that you’re doing a great job, Chirrut.”

“I’ve learned many things since we last spoke,” Chirrut snapped. No namedrops for him, they hadn’t even started rebuilding the bridge Baze had burned yet. And he wasn’t going to admit that hearing his name spoken in that familiar voice had caused his heart to jump.

Baze responded with a chuckle and a shake of his head. He was getting comfortable again and Chirrut hated it. Whatever gave him the right when he was on his toes here! “I know Saw but I only met him a handful of times. The last was maybe,” he shrugged, “ten or twelve years ago.”

“He’d remember you, though, wouldn’t he?” Chirrut stepped closer to Baze. “He might agree to meet you, if you came as a friend of Liana Hallik.”

Baze’s brows met again, weighed down by questions, the first of which was: “Why Liana?” He detected an edge in his voice, cleverly coated by a healthy dose of confusion. Chirrut felt sorry that he felt a tiny flare of triumph in it. He wouldn’t just drop Liana’s name like that without reason, after all—he knew they were close. He didn’t know how they met, only suspected that an association with Saw may be behind it but the records never lied. As it turned out, they clicked, even going so far as to do a couple of missions together. It wasn’t that he derived a sick sort of delight for finding and picking on Baze’s weakness but information was his playing field now. And information was an asset. 

Was this revenge? 

He got Baze where he wanted him. “Look,” the man said, shifting in his seat again, “if you just need someone to find Saw, I can do that.” _Leave Liana out of this._

“We know how to find him,” Chirrut told him, instinct softening his tone to ease Baze’s alarm without his noticing. “That’s not our problem. What we need is someone who gets us through the door without being killed.”

Baze didn’t seem to understand that. “Huh,” he said, dropping back to his chair. “But you’re all rebels, aren’t you?” he asked after a pause. 

“Yes, but Saw Gerrera’s an extremist.” This time, Mothma rejoined the conversation. “He’s been fighting his own war for quite some time. We have no choice but to try to mend that broken trust.”

“And you think,” Baze pointed to himself, “ _I_ can help you mend that trust? I’m not even a part of Saw’s rebellion and I don’t think he cares how many Imperials I’ve killed.” He slumped a little lower in his seat, arms snug across his chest. 

Mothma and Chirrut turned to each other. She gave him a little nod. With a slight exhalation, Chirrut faced his old friend again, resting his weight against the table. “We recently received intel from an Imperial defector—a pilot—that the Emperor could be creating a weapon with the power to destroy entire planets.”

Baze stared at him. And this time, it was not shock or plain disbelief printed in his face. Quite simply, he must have taken it as…a joke. A bad joke, too half-baked to be hilarious.

“That’s a terrible lie,” was all he could say in the end.

“I believe it’s the truth,” Mothma said. “I may be wrong, and I pray that I am—but I believe a weapon that murders worlds is the natural culmination of everything the Emperor has done. You’re right, though.” The senator paused to let out a little sigh. “If this were just about Saw Gerrera, we would have other approaches.”

“If this weapon exists, we have enough reason to believe that it should fall under the jurisdiction of your former employer Orson Krennic, director of the Imperial Military’s Advanced Weapons Research,” Chirrut picked up from where Mothma left off. “But since it isn’t possible to locate him at this short a time, we need a different angle to work from.” He stopped then and breathed, like a man building a reservoir of courage.

“So we decided to look for a man called Galen Erso, father of Jyn Erso,” Chirrut said and he saw it, then. The stiffening of Baze’s jaw, the hardness of his eyes. “Otherwise known presently as, Liana Hallik.” As if Baze needed telling because he knew. He’d known of it before any of them had stumbled upon that information.

Now he was using her as a bait. Again. Because this was his mission and he knew that Baze would protect her to the best that he could. From what, he didn’t know, but it was clear he wanted her out of Imperial business. Because this was Baze, after all, and he knew him. He knew all about his dreams and promises, and the little of those that came true. 

“We need to stop this weapon before it is finished,” Mothma said as an appeal.

“Captain Imwe’s mission is to authenticate the intel and then, if possible, find Galen Erso,” Draven added. 

Chirrut wondered if Baze heard any of those. He watched him closely. His old friend looked troubled, lost in thought, unable to look at anyone or any one thing. Could he break another promise? Could he live through that trauma again? 

_Baze,_ he whispered in his head as Baze’s eyes fell to his crossed arms. _Please._

“It would appear Galen Erso is critical to the development of this superweapon,” Mothma explained, eyes on Baze. “Given the gravity of the situation and your relationship with Saw and Liana, we’re hoping that you could convince them to help us locate Galen Erso and return him to the Senate for testimony.”

“We know Saw treats Liana like his own daughter,” Chirrut interjected quickly. He didn’t actually know for sure but he knew enough to assume this was the case. “And we won’t be able to get to Saw if we don’t get through Liana first. And she won’t be able to help us if Saw gets in the way.” He looked for a reaction in Baze’s crumpled face but found nothing but warring thoughts. And then he knew he had to do something before he lost Baze to them completely. 

He stepped towards his old friend and leaned close enough that Baze had to turn to look in surprise. There was no way he could have missed that. Chirrut reproached himself for taking advantage of Baze just like this but he was out of ideas, and they were running out of time. “Please, Baze,” he whispered. “We need your help. _I_ need your help.” What was the penalty for manipulation? 

Baze considered his words in pain but it wasn’t much longer when he asked, “And if I do it?” They were almost there!

Chirrut turned to Mothma. 

With a smile and a nod, she said, “We’ll make sure you go free.”

It didn’t take much longer for the Empire’s most wanted man in the list to finally accept the mission.

⚭

As soon as he and Chirrut were alone in the bunker, Baze struck before the opportunity was lost.

“Chirrut!” He reached for his wrist and grasped air, but he knew all about his moves and first instincts and the man moved like an overplayed hologram in his head. What first started as a series of evasions became a quick exchange of blocked blows until Baze finally enclosed both his hands around both Chirrut’s wrists. Chirrut glared at him and tried to break the trap but Baze refused. 

“How long have you been a part of the Alliance?” he spat out in one breath. 

“Since you never returned, you bastard!” Chirrut directed a kick to his shin which Baze dodged with a quick shift in his leg but that was all Chirrut needed to regain his hands. He aimed the heel of a palm to Baze’s nose but met the side of his hand instead as he swung back for space. 

They danced again, a well-rehearsed sparring track that went nowhere. Chirrut was the first to break out of the loop when he wove his fingers between Baze’s grasping ones and twisted their connected forearms only to be stopped mid-way by Baze catching him at a pressure point. Chirrut aimed a punch with his free hand but missed. Before the next breath, he pulled and pushed Chirrut through their joint limbs until he’d switched their places and flung his old friend to a mean corner with a solid slam. He received the business end of a harsh word for that. 

“I came back to Jedha,” Baze explained quickly. “I tried to look for you but I couldn’t find you!”

“Then you should have tried harder,” Chirrut snarled. “Or you could have stayed!”

“I did it to protect you!”

“Leaving a blind man alone in the streets is protecting him?” Chirrut scowled. “Baze, I was becoming blind! I can hardly see now without these glasses!”

Unfortunately, Baze had no excuses. Only that he’d hoped he would be faster than Chirrut’s condition. 

Now they marched down the tarmac together in hostile silence. Baze still nursed the bruise forming at his side after Chirrut marked it with his heel. He could practically see the smoke rising off Chirrut’s back, one shoulder weighed down by a well-worn duffel bag, the other a complicated mechanized hybrid of a bow and a cannon he knew was called a lightbow—because he’d made one himself in his youth. The lightbow was a weapon any self-respecting Guardian of the Whills carried with them. 

He was surprised to see that Chirrut still had his and it looked like it was in perfect working condition, too. He’d lost any right to speak about it now, though—or about anything, actually. Chirrut really was mad—and should he even be surprised? He left him, there was no going around that fact. 

He just hoped that Chirrut could maybe hear him out, assuming he still deserved the chance. He really had left him because he wanted to protect him. In those days, and as it always had, the Empire was growing stronger and stronger and they were getting hungrier and weaker. Baze felt that he had to do something about it so he became an Imperial mercenary hired on constant occasions by Orson Krennic. But he wasn’t in it for the money, although he liked to think that he’d used it to build himself up for his eventual betrayal. He wanted to be inside because he thought he could destroy the Empire from there, and that would stop the injustice and the cruelty. It was a sound plan but he was only one man bolstered only by two things: his righteous anger, and Chirrut Imwe. 

In the end, he lost—he realized too late that in his vengefulness, he’d become too blind to see that he was willingly aiding the destruction of Legacy worlds, that he may as well have destroyed Jedha itself. After an assignment in Wadi Raffa, he left the Empire’s employment and hurried back to Jedha. He wanted to find Chirrut and go into hiding with him.

But he came too late; there was an Imperial attack against a separatist insurrection cell hiding out in the smaller corners of NiJedha—and that was the last anyone had seen of Chirrut Imwe. The only conclusion he could come to was that his friend, the man he had dedicated all his sacrifices to, had been killed then. He never realized that this was because Chirrut had already joined the Alliance. 

Ever since, he felt like a lost soul, a shadow unanchored to a pair of feet. He grabbed every opportunity he could to kill any Imperial in sight. He became an assassin for redemption, to avenge his friend. He became acquainted to the unlikeliest people and hid his past to all except one—a young woman named Liana Hallik who later revealed herself to him as Jyn Erso, daughter of Galen Erso. She was a star in the midst of the darkness of the war-torn galaxy. She was Saw’s rebel, throwing herself at the line of fire if it meant one more day of defying the Empire that had destroyed her life. But more importantly, she was his little sister. 

He promised her he would protect her, the same way he once promised Chirrut he would keep him safe. Figures that he would fail Jyn, too, the same way he’d failed Chirrut. Baze felt ugly—he felt like he was trading one for the other in his thirst for redemption. If all things went to pot, he had no one to blame but himself. He was here in the middle of a crossroads because of his own stupid decisions. 

“Captain Imwe!”

Baze turned with Chirrut to see the red-haired general striding up to them and half-wondered if he had more bitterness to spew. Baze didn’t mind, he understood it was like peeing and you couldn’t hold it back, but he thought they were under the clock here? 

“Wait in the U-wing,” Chirrut muttered as he dumped his things on him. Baze grunted in surprise and almost fell with the combined weight of Chirrut’s fat pack, his lightbow, _his_ slightly more emaciated pack and the heavy set of his armor, ammo tank and cannon. It was all he could do not to fall apart or die of hernia when he finally climbed aboard the dinghy little freighter—which was all gray and mismatched, modified machinery plugged onto wherever there was space, leaving enough for a small crew’s legroom. It wasn’t much. At all. If this was the best that the rebellion had to offer—which he hoped to doubt because that would be depressing—it was…well, depressing anyway.

Baze found that he liked it, though. There was a warmth in there that was probably only reserved for people like them, people like _him_ who made do with whatever, customizing and reinventing something that would soon be a part of him. His red armor, his bulky ammo tank, the hundred-in-one cannon that had saved his life more than once, he didn’t buy them off somewhere or much less stole them. He made them—started from scratch and built them up into the monster that he loved.

He caught himself smiling slightly in appreciation of this patched up ship when someone called his attention with: “Hey. You’re Baze Malbus, aren’t you?”

“Hm?” Baze directed his attention to a slight man working on one of the communication panels to his right. He was definitely dressed to be a member of this crew: long hair tied up, goggles on his head, a dark green-gray Imperial flight suit with a black band wrapped haphazardly over the insignia (he couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just pull it off. If he was an Imperial spy—which Baze highly doubted—he was surprised he made it this far) and a fat, sagging utility vest. He looked like he was born straight out of the U-wing.

“Baze Malbus, Captain Imwe’s friend,” he added. His voice had a slight husk in it, and his eyes were too large and friendly for Baze’s comfort. He was instantly on his guard even though the man was smiling and he could break him in three if he wanted. “The captain told me I’d be meeting you.”

“Huh,” Baze said. Suddenly aware of himself, he put down Chirrut’s stuff, letting them lean against the wall.

The U-wing’s son took this as an opportunity to come forward with a hand out, even though Baze was in the middle of unslinging his own baggage. “Bodhi Rook,” he introduced himself. “I’m the pilot.”

In that one moment, Baze remembered three things: Bodhi was the pilot who came to pick him up from Wobani and told him happily, “Congratulations! You’re being rescued.” He was also the pilot for this mission, and he was also the Imperial defector. The pilot who provided the Alliance intel on the Empire’s superweapon.

“I remember you,” Baze said.

Bodhi smiled again, then looked at his unshaken hand consciously and wiped it in his suit. Baze wondered if he should apologize for completely forgetting about that part in their conversation. With a hesitant cheerfulness, the pilot added, “The captain also has me working on strategic analysis now.”

Baze nodded. With nothing left to say, Bodhi went back hastily to the panel he was working on. While he did that, Baze found himself a place on the U-wing’s central bench. His pack met the floor, and then carefully, his ammo tank.

Seated this way gave him a good view of the bay beyond, an empty plot of land save for a few fighters and pilots in the background and smack dab in the middle, General Draven and Chirrut Imwe, standing in quiet discussion. Chirrut had changed so much, he noticed belatedly. It wasn’t just in his bomber jacket, his combat pants or his hair, which was still short but too long and unruly for a respectable Guardian. He saw it more vividly in his stance—that weary, business-like form of a true rebel. Ever since they were young, he always stood with the gracefulness of a bird, spine straight, chin high, shoulders low. Now his figure was twisted with impatience, his chin deep and his shoulders skewed while he carried his weight on one leg, his hands on his sides.

“I uhh...heard that you defected, too.”

“Uhh,” Baze couldn’t pull away his eyes from the general and the captain until the last minute. He looked to Bodhi who looked back at him, a harris wrench in hand. “What?”

Bodhi used his tool to indicate him, then twirled it like a magic trick in his hand, a habit borne out of practice. “The captain said you defected from the Empire, too.”

He was looking for kinship, that much was obvious. Fellow defectors like him. Baze shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. I wasn’t really a part of the Empire, though.”

“Why not?”

“I was a mercenary, and an assassin.” Baze tossed his hand slightly. “I get hired to do their dirty work.”

“Oh,” Bodhi said, because what else was there to say? He held on to his harris wrench, which suddenly looked like a weapon in his hand.

And then he turned to the ammo tank sitting idly by Baze’s feet, and said again, “Ohhh…”

⚭

“Galen Erso is vital to the Empire’s weapons program,” General Draven reminded him as they stood outside the U-wing. “There will be no extraction. You find him, you kill him. Then and there.”

Easier said than done, as all expectations from General Draven were but this particular order came with a special set of complications—namely Baze Malbus and Bodhi Rook.

Two men inadvertently connected to two Ersos. Chirrut might as well find a rock in the vast forest of Yavin IV and smack himself up the head with it. This was not a problem he would have fun solving at all, assuming he could come up with a win-win situation for everyone involved. He was going to use an old friend—who he manipulated through his guilt—to help him murder his friend’s father, and he was going to betray another friend whose defection was encouraged by none other than the victim himself, Galen Erso. The man who held Bodhi’s greatest respect.

How would he even begin to lie? How would Chirrut begin to destroy everything that was important to him? His reason for living?

For what it was worth, his mission did at least tell him one thing: Baze Malbus was still important to him. That much was clearer than crystal now. He could direct all the anger, all the hatred this galaxy and this Dark Side of the Force could spare to this man who abandoned him as easily as one would dump old clothes, but it would still break his heart if Baze ever severed their relationship. He had been the one who recommended his extraction, after all, hadn’t he? He had been the one to throw all caution to the wind when he sent that message from hyperspace.

He could barely look at his hunched form when he finally climbed aboard the U-wing and went for his pack. Baze didn’t bother with him either, too interested with the clicks and slides of the cannon he was breaking open and sealing again. Bodhi was doing flight preps in the cockpit.

This was a good neutral topic to cover his guilt, Chirrut decided. He nodded towards the youngest man among them and asked, “You met Bodhi?”

Baze, his cannon split in half, stopped to regard the smaller man hidden behind the pilot’s chair. “Nice kid,” he said. “Where’d you pick him up?”

“I didn’t pick him up, he defected,” Chirrut spat in a hurry, carrying his belongings to the back of the co-pilot’s seat where he would be spending the duration of the journey in. Not exactly a smart place to put them but he had to look busy, like they were running late. The more movement he made, the less he would remember his guilt.

He chanced upon Baze’s backpack next to his feet. That overcompensating piece of metal that baffled everyone in the Alliance when they saw it in the holding room. He doubted that there was any rock in the entire galaxy where it was considered even borderline legal.

He decided to pick on that, too. “You couldn’t find a bigger gun, could you?”

Baze paused from his inspection again and responded to Chirrut’s needless criticism with a high brow. He looked at his hip and nodded to it. “You have a lightsaber.” Okay, Chirrut didn’t expect that.

He grabbed the metallic stub of his folded stick and scowled. He climbed into his seat and started to do his own flight preps.

“Seal the doors. Pull away in five,” Chirrut instructed mechanically.

“Copy that,” Bodhi responded flatly.

That was enough to throw Chirrut off his rhythm. Bodhi was never so lackluster on his assignments, not when he’d practically had to walk on burning embers to be inducted into the Alliance Fleet. And that opened Chirrut up to the noisy buzz that surrounded Bodhi’s form which sat hunched and tensed over his settings. The buzz was non-existent, of course, at least in the normal sense of the word. It belonged to a layer much deeper than the one most everyone perceived, a layer that connected everyone to each other. Something that he could read in spite of all the violations he’d committed against his faith.

Well, it didn’t take a weapons engineer to find out, really. Leaning slightly to the stoic pilot, Chirrut whispered kindly, “Bodhi? I sense fear in you.”

Bodhi jumped and whirled to stare at him. He would be the recipient of a smile stubbornly refused of Baze who had probably expected it from a long overdue reunion. Well, if he’d waited that long for it, he could probably afford to wait a little more. For now. 

The pilot threw a nervous glance over his shoulder towards Baze’s shape. He shifted closer to the rebel spy who quirked his brows up in amusement. “Your friend, Baze Malbus,” he whispered. He directed another furtive look at the man, as if all these theatrics could keep their conversation a secret from the assassin. Chirrut almost wanted to laugh, a strange feeling to be felt in relation to the man he hadn’t seen in ages. “He really did defect from the Empire, right?”

“Did he give you any reason to doubt that?” Chirrut turned to Baze to catch him polishing his cannon, a far quieter task than fiddling with his machinery although he didn’t have to work so hard to eavesdrop when it came to Bodhi. 

“It’s just…” Bodhi hissed, flicking his tongue across his lips nervously. “Well. He said he was an assassin hired by the Empire…to do the dirty job. So. I’m just thinking.”

“What if this was all a setup and he was hired to silence us?”

“Yes!” Bodhi said, who himself carried a hefty bounty for betraying the Empire and committing theft. Excited now, he spoke quickly. “I just think that the probability of him using his weapon against us is high—very high!” he amended quickly. 

Well. If Bodhi found out the truth behind his mission, the probability of him using Baze’s cannon against him would also be very high. At least Bodhi didn’t know how to shoot. Which may or may not be a good thing, depending on the context. 

This was going to have to be one of those things without the right answers. It was times like this that Chirrut missed the past, when things used to be so simple, and everything was just the will of the Force. 

The radio came on with an officer from the control room. They were cleared for take off. Chirrut heard the engines rising and what sounded like Baze securing himself lest he fall off. It almost felt like he was saying goodbye to yet another life. When this mission was over, there was no saying whose corpse would be flying back in the U-wing. 

_I am one with the Force,_ Chirrut found himself chanting, _and the Force is with me._

Facing Bodhi again, he smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder. “Trust in the Force,” he said to him.

He could use a little reminder of the Force’s power himself.


End file.
